


Quiet

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Dissociation, Double Anal Penetration, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Control, Sensory Deprivation, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 08:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4557888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Dean doesn't want to face himself what he is and what he needs, he will have to have it shown to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet

More than anything, this is a lesson - for Dean. Sam might get a certain kick out of it, yeah, but that's not the point. He could have gotten this elsewhere.

No. This is for _Dean_.

Since ThenSam never showed his brother how deeply he really understands him - and Sam doesn't exactly get the reason for _that_ -, Dean never had to get rid of that disgusting coat of know-it-all attitude. Untouchable, heroic, in control. He is all too obviously enjoying to see himself as that, to sell himself like that.

But Sam knows what lies underneath. ThenSam's memories supply him with enough evidence, and he himself witnesses his own fair share in both the right and wrong moments.

Pathetic.

Weak.

Sam sees it, right there. It took some time, yes, and Sam didn't expect Dean to shatter too easily - but it's been one hour now, and the lesson starts showing its effects.

Circulation in Dean's hands and feet must have worn off ages ago; Sam can't really tell by their color since they are wrapped in duct tape, but he has his understandings of medical procedures of the human body. The ropes chafe angry red valleys into the paleness of Dean's skin, don't even slick-slide in the sweat with how tight Sam fixed them. For his own good, Dean didn't try to fight them for too long. There is some rope left and the desk obviously _is_ able to hold his weight. But he stopped squirming after twenty and started dissolving after forty.

A few feet away from the center of room and attention, Sam observes the little changes, listens for them. Like the tone of Dean's voice, the volume, the density of it. His choice of words. Slowly but surely, it decreased. Profanities and curses have long faded into persistent silence - and now slowly hitch into what Dean fears the most: Resignation.

Sam knows that all Dean's perception has to offer to him now is the sound of his own voice. Underneath the headphones, the plugs keep him oblivious to the happenings around him. Sam wonders if underneath the blindfold, Dean's eyes have started watering yet. Judging by the breathlessness, it's close.

"Whore." "Sloppy cunt." "Disgusting." "Pig." "Princess." "Baby girl." "Slut."

Dean doesn't hear the nicknames, doesn't see the mouths they're being spilled from, _spit_ from. He can't see faces, can't keep track of hands, of cocks. He gasped and grunted at the first but (with a few hard earned exceptions) kept his jaw clenched and throat tight from then on. Show no fear. Show no weakness. Hold on. Get through it. Survive.

Sam contemplated using a spider gag to offer another hole for the strangers to use, but then again he doesn't want Dean to suffocate. And he needs his, no, _wants_ his voice.

Those taunts, those jokes at the beginning almost were worth it all already. "Is this a joke?" "Very funny, Sam." "Didn't I tell you to keep your nose out of my Hentai collection?" No, it wasn't. Yes, it was. Yes, he did tell him that, but Sam doesn't need directions for things like that.

But oh, that moment the realization cut in. That first hand sliding over his tucked-up thigh, the first finger nudging at his ass, the twist to his nipple; the outstretched palm that pinned him down so easily and sincere when he tried to escape them all.

That first eternity of complete, utter horror in the form of a small gap between lips - of an open but quiet mouth.

Then, naturally, the screams set in.

Sam, of course, isn't stupid. In this part of town, nobody is around for miles (or if there is, they are not too curious). In this town, nobody knows them. In this town, all it took to find willing participants was a vague thread on Craigslist with a picture of Dean's blindfolded, drooling mess of a sleeping face. They swarmed in like flies. Sam can't blame them.

_Ruin him. No blood, no fractures, no feces. Bring test results and you can leave your raincoat at home._

Much more guys than Sam would have thought bring those "free tickets" as they are called amongst the crowd. Every now and then, someone is enough of a freak to slurp the entire mess straight out of Dean's hole to clean up at least a little bit. Sam's lost count, but numbers don't matter here.

Laxatives and a finger to Dean's throat had been a good precaution; he probably would have suffocated on his own vomit by now judging by how relentlessly he dry-heaves mouthfuls of spit. His body is weaker than his mind by miles and has been shaking for quite a while. Hollow; more corners for Dean's mind to flee to, but there is only so much space his being has to offer. All Sam has to do is wait for it to come spluttering out of Dean's mouth, his nose, the pores of his skin.

Dean can't hear the constant slapslapslap of skin against skin, of his sweat mixing with others', of some stranger's come squelching out of his ass thanks to the deep fucking of yet another stranger's cock. What he _is_ able to is feeling the hands on him, restless like a hive of bees, pinching and brushing and holding; feeling the pounding to the deepest pits of his insides, the wrench of his muscles under attention and pressure and pain and exhaustion.

ThenSam had seen this face before. It's a faint memory, back from when Dean still went to school, still believed in the immortality of his father and the everlasting company of his brother. Back from when Dean still had unknown dimensions of pain ahead of him, things and experiences that would hit him unprepared where he learned not to bash an eyelash at nowadays. Back when Dean was still vulnerable.

For almost an hour now, Dean has been raped, humiliated, tortured, all while knowing exactly that Sam was there. Not a single time had there been a whisper of Sam's name, not even a howl. It's not been time yet.

Sam can wait.

The current guy finishes and Sam finds a shudder in Dean's stomach. Could be sickness, could be relief - another one less, maybe the last, oh please let it be the last. The next shoves in without much of a pause, and Dean visibly stiffens.

Sam smiles.

Little huffs are the beginning of the end, and Sam muses if Dean is aware of that guard falling to pieces. They're the first tiny signs of breath from Dean whatsoever since this started. He keeps them quiet, soft; but once they're out there, he can't take them back. Domino effect.

Dean doesn't know how many there are yet to come. Sam doesn't know any numbers either, but he has his sight to look at his watch, to get a view over the amount of people who are currently in the room with them; has his hearing to estimate where they stand, how far away they are, what their next move is going to be.

Dean doesn't. All there is in his world is the fact that he is at mercy of everything and everyone who minds to claim it, and his utter powerlessness about said fact.

Big brother, righteous man, Michael's vessel - Dean knows how it feels to be decided over. But it has never been like this. It has never been this; only him and Sam, _Sam_ selling him out like this, _Sam_ betraying him like this. Of course, this is _Sam_ and not ThenSam. Of course, Dean cannot distinguish between the two. Not yet. Maybe never again. Sam isn't too concerned about that.

"Shit. He's so loose you could park a truck in there."

A finger (fingers?) next to that cock.

"Still looks spacy, man."

"Wait a sec, I think I know how to-"

"Ah, yes; fuck. Nice."

"Get in there, c'mon."

When Dean eventually understands what is about to happen, Sam can see all the ugliness bolting through him, can _tell_ he will pick the so forgotten fighting spirit and thrash against his bonds a lifetime before Dean actually _does_. The men laugh and whistle, and when the one guy manages to heft Dean on top of himself, Sam for the first time in forever hears what could have become of Dean's voice.

"No!"

Simple as that, and a weak try, too.

Again; louder, hastier.

The laughter around him picks up and more hands reach out to rub submission into his skin; only make him struggle harder, scream louder.

"Wait!"

They don't.

Dean is panting now, and someone shoved their thumb into his mouth - but through the mess of it all, all that Sam takes in is that strangled, almost silent "Please".

The second cock rams itself into his ass right next to the first, and Dean _wails_.

Sam leans back at the sound, takes a deep breath in and then out of his chest.

 _Yes_ , he thinks.

The duct tape mittens that contain Dean's fingers twitch to life together with his body, the last attempt of fight, of resistance. Dean swears again, punches death threats around and bites at everything he can get at - not much after they get a hold of his hair. His hole stretches wide and someone touches his belly, states that he can "fuckin' feel them in there"; Sam can't tell from here.

Dean whines for the first time.

The men inside of him grunt, laugh, get really going under the thrill of the sudden reactions. Sam can only guess how a fuck like that must hurt like after so many others before, after no stop and too much friction in such an alienated place. And that is only the _physical_ side of it.

But Sam is here, and Sam can see it, can understand it, all of it. He can _read_ Dean.

They fuck, he yelps. Sam hears "Nononononono", "Too much", "Don't", "Please"; the latter the rarest, but the rhythm picks up.

Dean's voice dies off again until it's reduced to a constant whimper, little pleads and noises that almost don't make it up to Sam's ears over the cheers of the crowd. His body is boneless now and lets itself get swept back and forth with the impact of the thrusts. Even his skin looks loose now, doesn't pull taut under the ropes and fingers.

Dean is broken. Has been before Hell, has been afterwards. One way or another, he's always been torturing. Sometimes monsters, sometimes what he thought were monsters, sometimes the people he loves most. He's always been like that. And he's always needed someone to order him around. Dad. Angels. Demons. Dean isn't choosy.

But Sam? His little brother Sam? The only person who maybe understands him just as good as (or even better than) himself, who is closest and most honest to and with him? No. _That_ , he cannot endure. It's too much, too close, too honest - too brutal. That person needs to be held down, kept small, kept quiet. Little brother, monster, nerd, freak, _Sammy_.

ThenSam endured it, but _Sam_ won't have it. If Dean doesn't want to face himself what he is and what he needs, he will have to have it shown to him.

Sam gets up - and the entire crowd freezes.

He doesn't take his eyes off Dean. "Go on."

They do, and he walks between them, right up to the edge of the table where the stench is beyond erotic now; all sweat and lube and come that turned stale ages ago. Everybody is watching him, but it is of no importance. "Go on," he repeats with a short, stern look to the guy underneath Dean, then returns his attention back to his brother.

It's hard to tell underneath the thick blindfold. Dean's sobs could as well be dry, his shaking could as well be a sign of exhaustion.

Sam waits.

Eventually, one of the guys finishes. Everyone is clever enough to keep the penetration in doubles though, and Sam tilts his head a little at the tremor rolling over Dean's face.

"Sam!"

He blinks.

Yes.

You're starting to get it.

No. It won't stop.

Yes, I am here. Yes. I could make it stop.

No - I won't.

Not yet.

Dean can't hear him, can't see him, probably not smell him over the monstrosity he is surrounded with. Still, Sam has to say it.

" _Beg_."

No reaction, of course, but Dean's hyperventilation now starts to wear on him. He's a puddle of sweat and hair, of pink lips and the broken sound of his voice, a voice that doesn't dare repeat the name now that it didn't earn him anything.

It's the last branch, really - Sam's name. When it's out there, Dean will be empty. He will see.

The swell of his cock has multiplied since Sam had slipped the ring on it in Dean's drug-induced sleep. Its color is beyond healthy. After prohibiting it to the strangers, Sam wraps his palm around the shaft and squeezes, hard.

The sound is nothing like ThenSam's memories have to offer.

"Beg," Sam repeats, eyes softly drooping where they rest on Dean's face, the gaping "o" of his mouth, the back and forth of his body in between the other two, tied up into the shape of an embryo with his knees folded up to his chest and his arms tight in between, as if he was crossing them like a stubborn child - which he is.

Just a little more. Just another draught.

Sam's hand slips down, up again; softly as can be in the tight space between thighs and pelvis. He watches.

"N-no, I-"

Hisses, hints of squirms that get Dean nowhere.

Frustration, panic, hypersensitivity. Lost.

"S- Sa-"

A squeeze.

A cry. "SAM!"

 _Yes_ , Sam thinks.

Every sound from Dean's throat merges into a new chant of _pleasepleaseplease_ , without his name, but it's not needed either.

Sam smiles. His hand doesn't stop.

"Good boy," he says.

Once again, Dean goes rigid. Sam's fingers prod at the clasp of the ring.

"No!" Dean croaks.

"Yes," Sam hums.

"Nonononono, please, PLEASE, don'-"

The second it's off, Dean comes.

More than physical pleasure, this is _spiritual satisfaction_ for Sam - for the both of them.

Dean renders himself completely hoarse on his own tongue, against Sam's hand that doesn't stop, thumbs over the obscenely drenched head again and again until it runs out, both Dean's cock and his mouth.

Touches make him shudder, then leave him motionless. His lips are still moving.

Sam understands.

"Show's over," he announces and retrieves his hand.

Not everyone is too happy about the sudden end, but all Sam has to give is a firm glare to clear the place rather quickly. The door falls closed, and they are alone once more.

On the table, Dean doesn't move, let gravity roll him onto his side. Sam runs his fingers over the blindfold and finds it warm and wet. If it's tears or sweat is not of importance.

Sam bows down and gently pulls away the headphones. Dean's drained body can merely come up with enough force to shudder at that.

He retrieves the plug from Dean's presented ear. Slowly, gently, because this is the most delicate part of Dean right now, the most vulnerable.

And here, Sam belongs.

He leans down until his lips are directly above Dean's ear, breathes there for a couple of times just to prepare Dean for the first piece of hearing he will undergo in what could have felt like a lifetime to him.

A whisper, nothing more, as low and careful as Sam can manage; a soft brush of voice over raw human soul.

"This is what you are."

Sam listens to Dean's breath stumble, then even out, then calm down. Out again.

After a shot of tranquilizers (just to be sure), Sam will cut the ropes and replace the important ones - wrists and ankles, for the bedposts - to assure an orderly way of waking up. Dean would either hurt himself or Sam if he was unrestrained, and Sam has no patience for that. It's easier like that. Dean will be grateful.

Now, again, Sam waits. But it's a more peaceful waiting now - the hurdle has been cleared. It took hard work and Dean will need time to recover, sure. But in the end, it worked.

They'll have a lot to discuss once Dean has found his voice again.

Sam can wait.

 

 _One beer, one pill; easy. ThenSam was a_ saint _, and Dean is too sentimental to give in to what his guts whisper to him about this "new" Sam. He waits until Dean is down and out before he undresses him, moves him like a ragdoll to secure the first knots. It's easy, so easy. Sam laughs, and Dean still has no clue._

_When Dean wakes, his vision won't clear from blackness. "Suh... Sam...?"_

_Always him, always Sam. Yes. And this is what Dean has to accept. "I'll be watching," he tells Dean. "I'm in this room, and I won't leave."_

_Dean flinches instinctively at the intrusion of the plugs into his ears. But Sam's hands are skilled and powerful. Dean's skull has nowhere to go._

_"Wha...?"_

_Softly, Sam reaches for the headphones and, without Dean's knowledge, let them hover over Dean's ears, ready to engulf him in silence._

_"I'm here with you," Sam says._

_The headphones slide in place._


End file.
